After the Barricade
by Sumei1
Summary: [One-shot. Crossover. Reaper!Javert] Javert was expecting something like Heaven or Hell, the religious man he was. Instead he gets new glasses, regret, a really nice suit, and what are these Grim Reapers? Disclaimers: nope I don't own Les Mis or Black Butler, unfortunately.
**After the Barricade**

* * *

After Javert had flung his body off the bridge, sinking heavily in the river Seine, he had expected the darkness. Perhaps, deep inside, he had even hoped to see the eventual ethereal light shine upon him from the eternal, pale halls of Heaven by God's good will. After all, despite his misgivings about Jean Valjean, Javert had been a good man of the law, had he not? He hadn't worn the badge of Inspector for nothing.

But, fate had something else planned for this man who could not have beared the thought of a life in which Jean Valjean was truly and wholly and changed honest man. Because Jean Valjean had paid his penance, he would leave this physical plane with no more burdens upon his large shoulders, but for the thought he would be leaving his dear Cosette. But Javert's punishment had been yet to be wrought.

When Javert opened his once grey eyes, his stern brows rose in shock and tried to avoid stumbled in the crowd milling about him. People, young and old, walked around with looks of perplexed confusion. Javert stared at the poor and rich, mixing with no regard to societal status. It was . . . mind-boggling. It was as if there was no boundary between them any more— did they realize that? Or perhaps was it just a subconscious urge?

For a man who had lived in both the gutter and the higher reaches of Paris, he could not comprehend this.

"Inspector Javert, I've been expecting you," a smooth voice greeted the man. Javert turned around, stepping back as the tall man's bright yellow-green eyes seemed to glow ominously at him behind the neat glasses. "I'll be your guide here."

Javert blinked at the large sign above-head, trying and failing to read the blur of letters. The man noted his distress and smiled dryly, "ah, yes, I forgot. Here, these are temporary until you chose your own," a gloved hand offered a pair of thin, wire-rim glasses.

The former police officer scowled, having taken pride in his rather good eyesight when living, but after the plunge off the bridge . . . what _did_ that make him? Javert wondered. Placing the glasses on, he blinked and noted the sudden clarity. _Grim Reaper District: French Division_ the large sign read, sending an odd shiver down Javert's spine.

"Although there are the benefits of being a Grim Reaper, unfortunately our sight worsens: a burden we must carry as soul collectors," the man spoke drolly. "You can call me Michael. Now, I'll explain matters later, first we should get out of the plaza. It's usually crowded with reapers not on the job. After all, there's not very many places we can go."

Mouth suddenly dry, Javert followed Michael hesitantly. "I- I don't understand."

Michael stopped, bright green eyes darkening, "you _do_ know where you are?"

"The French Division of the Grim Reaper District," Javert rattled off. He'd always been good at that— memorizing and repeating orders. As he reflected over his life, perhaps that was all he'd ever been good at.

Michael's back turned to Javert and he led the man to a clothing store, which seemed oddly out of place in the whitened halls of the organization. "You're dead, Javert," Michael's voice was clipped and cold. "We're all dead. In a way, we all signed up for this— we've all killed ourselves," with that dry, sardonic smile in place, Javert entertained the thought that this man was insane.

If what he was saying proved true and Michael _was_ dead, who knew how long he'd been here? The thought of spending eternity in this strange, strange place with only one's thoughts seemed enough to drive anyone insane, Javert contemplated.

Javert wasn't sure what brought him to say it, but the words were already out before he could take them back: "how?"

Michael gave a surprised look at the ex-Inspector. After all, the police never got anything done without being inquisitive. "Bullet to the head. Direct shot, point blank range," Michael added, as if that wouldn't have been apparent. Javert felt oddly sickened by the way the man spoke of his death by his own hand so calmly. "I had thought revolution would bring happiness to our nation, but instead it only brought blood and carnage. I- I didn't want to see that," Michael's voice got softer. "I didn't want to see the end of France. _Viva la revolution_ , right?"

His voice was soft and menacing, like a knife hidden under a cloak. Javert was quitely thankful Michael didn't pry at his circumstance for dying. He shook his head, "I shouldn't be telling you that. It's only your first day. Now, what are your measurements?"

Javert blinked, trying to process everything that had happened in the past hour. The row upon row of clean, pressed black suits didn't help the uncanny feeling of intimidation rising in Javert. " . . . expecting a lot of staff?" came at last out of Javert's constricting windpipe. All he got was a harsh laugh. Michael was done with the idle chat.

The Grim Reapers— an organization of the willing dead. What sort of undead life would Javert find in this place, where everyone seemed half mad?

* * *

An hour later, Javert found himself staring intently in a mirror, taking in his combed grey-speckled hair, sharp midnight black suit and glasses. For all purposes, Javert looked _business_ -like. But the feature that caught his attention the most was his eyes— Javert had always thought he'd had rather ordinary eyes. Grey eyes like the mist that faded when morning came. Grey, stormy eyes that warned of danger to criminals and convicts.

But now, they were grey no longer.

Instead the cool, unimpeachable flare of chartreuse phosphorescent stared back at him behind the frames, giving the ex-Inspector a distant appearance, like a piece of sleeping grass: there to observe, but never to touch or interact with.

"It's hard to get used to, isn't it?" Michael spoke softly, standing just a moment prior quietly behind Javert.

Javert switched his gaze to the man, who, over the course of the hour, had quickly earned Javert's respect with his knowledge and sense of duty. Those were things, despite Javert's idealistic confusion, he could admire regardless.

"Surely you remember? The French Revolution was but a few decades ago."

"Even despite my missions to the mortal world, I can't help but lose track of time," Michael replied, a tinge of regret in his voice. "You'll understand, someday. Such is the way of immortals."

"Immortal? Will I be here forever?" Javert felt a sense of apprehension. He, out of anyone, knew that punishment wasn't something that could, no, _should_ last forever. If Jean Valjean had taught him anything, it was that a man could change. This Grim Reaper business was evidently a way to serve penance to those who gave up on life— so what occurred when a man or woman fulfilled that? Surely there could be no parole system with the dead?

Michael smiled at the slightly panicked light that entered Javert's eyes.

"Don't worry it'll pass quickly— eternity isn't that long," Javert's cool-headed guide led him elsewhere. "Nah, you get released after you learn your lesson or whatever."

Javert blinked. Had the man made a _joke_? Or at least a crude one, in the loosest sense of the word. Nothing was normal in the afterlife, if that was what this place was.

"Which one do you want?"

Michael's voice snapped Javert from his reverie. In front of the former police officer was an array of objects, some obviously weapons, like a pair of scythes or a long, slim blade (katana?), but others, not as much. Javert caught glimpse of grass clippers and a bright red machine with blades and a sleek black handle to push it with (lawnmower?). Perhaps Grim Reapers had an attraction to gardening tools? It wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen.

"This will be your death scythe— while not all look like scythes, they're just as deadly. You'll receive more instruction later, but it'll help you with the job, especially if you run into trouble," Michael explained, gesturing to the assortment. "Your pick."

Javert looked around, finding most of the blades and weapons far too flashy for his simplistic style. Then it caught his eye— he could hardly believe it was there.

The perplexed man, or rather, Grim Reaper, touched the smooth handle gently, as if it were a fragile sculpture of glass. A simple hand-held pistol, most likely from the Napoleonic Wars, it reminded Javert fondly of the police-regulation pistol he held often.

Michael looked at him with barely disguised interest, "different choice than others would've made," he commented.

Javert shrugged, picking the pistol up, feeling for familiarity. "I'm not like others."

A small smile.

"Truly." Michael held out his hand, sitting easily on the table, "welcome to the division Inspector Javert."

Assuming it was alright, Javert pocketed the death scythe-pistol and took the man's cold hand. "Where are we to go now?"

Michael smiled sadly, "this is the last we'll see of each other. I was simply here to introduce you to the facility. Some other Grim Reaper will come by to take you on your first outing soon. Unless we're paired in the future, I doubt we'll see each other again. The division's a big place."

Javert suddenly felt his throat tighten again. He'd never considered himself an emotional person, always sure of himself and his belief in the God and law, in fact, in his mind the two had easily been synonymous. But he now saw his fault— perhaps it was that inability to handle such emotions that caused Javert to write that impassioned letter on that night, taking a fateful step off the bridge to the treacherous waters below. It was thus hard to imagine ever getting close to anyone. His parents? Javert suppressed a laugh at the thought. No— his parents, who lived in the scummy gutter of which he was raised in were left behind as Javert rose up in the ranks.

So how was Javert so disappointed by this Grim Reaper's farewell?

Javert blamed it entirely upon dying. Truly that had made him more emotional, or at least more susceptible to these feelings of comradeship.

If Javert was being honest with himself, it had nothing to do with dying, and everything to do with the barricade and one Jean Valjean. It's strange how so many lives were ended and yet some changed for the better.

Javert stared at Michael's eyes intently, "we'll see each other again. I'm certain of it."

Michael finally gave a full smile, easily surpassing his suppressed ones of before.

"I look forward to it."

And ever since Javert had let Jean Valjean with the half-dead boy go, he finally felt as if he was doing some right with his life.

 **fin**

* * *

 **A/N: I don't even know. I just was rereading the Green Witch arc of the Black Butler manga and whoopty-doo look now there's a crossover ;-;**


End file.
